Nobody Lives for Ever

‘Oh, business. They own companies and that kind of thing – and, yes, James, I’ll take you up on your offer of a ride to Rome. Thank you.’

They were half-way through the lamb when the padrone came hurrying forward, excused himself to Sukie, and bent to whisper that there was an urgent telephone call for Bond. He pointed towards the bar, where the telephone was off the hook.

‘Bond,’ he said quietly into the receiver.

‘James, you somewhere private?’ He recognised the voice immediately. It was Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of- Staff.

‘No. I’m having dinner.’

‘This is urgent. Very urgent. Could you . . . ?’

‘Of course.’ He put down the receiver and went back to the table to make his apologies to Sukie. ‘It won’t take long.’ He told her about May being ill in the clinic. ‘They want me to ring them back.’

In his room he set up the CC500 and called London. Bill Tanner came on the line straight away.

‘Don’t say anything, James, just listen. The instructions are from M. Do you accept that?’

‘Of course.’

He had no alternative if Bill Tanner said he was speaking for the Chief of the Secret Service.

‘You’re to stay where you are and take great care.’ There was anxiety in Tanner’s voice.

‘I’m due in Rome tomorrow, I . . .’

‘Listen to me, James. Rome’s coming to you. You, I repeat you, are in the gravest danger. Genuine danger. We can’t get anyone to you quickly, so you’ll have to watch your own back. But stay put. Understand?’

‘I understand.’ When Bill Tanner spoke of Rome coming to him, he meant Steve Quinn, the Service Resident in Rome. The same Steve Quinn Bond had planned to stay with for a couple of days. He asked why Rome was coming to him.

‘To put you fully in the picture. Brief you. Try to get you out.’ He heard Tanner take a quick breath at the other end of the line. ‘I can’t stress the danger strongly enough, old friend. The Chief suspected problems before you left, but we only got the hard intelligence in the last hour. M has flown to Geneva and Quinn is on his way there to be briefed. Then he will come straight to you. He’ll be with you before lunch. In the meantime, trust nobody. For God’s sake, just stay close.’

‘I’m with the Tempesta girl now. Promised her a ride to Rome. What’s the form on her?’ Bond was crisp.

‘We haven’t got it all, but her connections seem clean enough. Certainly not involved with the Honoured Society. Treat her with care, though. Don’t let her get behind you.’

‘I was thinking of the opposite, as a matter of fact.’ Bond’s mouth moved into a hard smile, tinged with a hint of cruelty.

Tanner told him to keep her at the hotel. ‘Stall her about Rome, but don’t alert her. You really don’t know who are your friends and who your enemies. Rome will give you the full strength tomorrow.’

‘We won’t be able to leave until late morning, I’m afraid,’ he told Sukie, once back at the table. ‘That was a business chum who’s been to see my old housekeeper. He’s passing through here tomorrow morning, and I really can’t miss the chance of seeing him.’

She said it did not matter. ‘I was hoping for a lie-in tomorrow anyway.’ Could he detect an invitation in her voice?

They talked on and had coffee and a fine in the neat dining room, with its red and white checked tablecloths and gleaming cutlery, the two stolid north Italian waitresses attending the diners as though serving writs instead of food.

Sukie suggested they should sit at one of the tables outside the Mirto, but Bond made the excuse that it could be uncomfortable.

‘Mosquitoes and midges tend to congregate around the lights. You’ll end up with that lovely skin blotched. It’s safer indoors.’

She asked what kind of business he was in, and he gave her the usual convincing if vague patter, which she appeared to accept. They talked of towns and cities they both enjoyed, and of food and drink.

‘Perhaps I can take you to dinner in Rome,’ Bond suggested. ‘Without wanting to seem ungrateful, I think we can get something a little more interesting at Papa Giovanni’s or the Augustea.’

‘I’d love it. It’s a change to talk to someone who knows Europe well. Pasquale’s family are very Roman, I’m afraid. They don’t really see much further than the Appian Way.’

Bond found it a pleasant evening, although he had to make some effort to appear relaxed after hearing the news from London. Now he had to get through the night.

They went up together, with Bond offering to escort Sukie to her room. They reached the door, and he had no doubts as to what should happen. She came into his arms easily enough, but when he kissed her she did not respond, but kept her lips closed tight, her body rigid. So, he thought, one of those. But he tried again, if only because he wanted to keep her in sight. This time she pulled away, gently putting her fingers to his mouth.

‘I’m sorry, James. But no.’ There was the ghost of a smile as she said, ‘I’m a good convent girl, remember. But that’s not the only reason. If you’re serious, be patient. Now, goodnight, and thank you for the lovely evening.’

‘I should thank you, Principessa,’ he said with a touch of formality.

He watched as she closed her door, then went slowly to his own room, swallowed a couple of Dexedrine tablets and prepared to sit up all night.

4

THE HEAD HUNT

Steve Quinn was a big man, tall, broad, bearded and with an expansive personality, not the usual sort to get a responsible undercover position in the Service. They preferred what they called ‘invisible men’ – grey people who could vanish into a crowd. ‘He’s a big, bearded bastard,’ Steve’s wife, the petite blonde Tabitha, was often heard to remark.

Bond watched from behind his half-closed shutters as Quinn got out of a hired car and walked towards the hotel entrance. A few seconds later, the telephone rang and Mr Quarterman was announced. Bond told them to send him up.

Quinn was inside with the door locked almost before the knock had died in the air. He did not speak immediately, but went straight to the window and glanced down at the forecourt and the lake steamer which had just docked. The sheer beauty of the lake usually took the tourists’ breath away when they disembarked, but this morning the loud yah-yahing of an English woman’s voice could be heard, even in Bond’s room, saying, ‘I wonder what there is to see here, darling.’

Bond scowled, and Quinn gave a tiny smile, almost hidden by his beard. He looked at the remains of Bond’s breakfast and mouthed noiselessly, asking if the place was clean.

‘Spent the night going over it. Nothing in the telephone, or anywhere else.’

Quinn nodded. ‘Okay.’

Bond asked why they could not have flown Geneva up to him.

‘Because Geneva’s got problems of his own,’ said Quinn, his finger stabbing out towards Bond. ‘But not a patch on your problems, my friend.’

‘Talk, then. The Chief met you for a briefing?’

‘Right. I’ve done what I can. Geneva doesn’t like it, but two of my people should be here by now to watch your back. M wants you in London – in one piece if possible.’

‘So, there is someone on my tail.’ Bond sounded unconcerned, but pictures of the shattered car on the motorway and Cordova’s body lying in the churchyard flashed through his mind.

Quinn lowered himself into a chair. He spoke in a near whisper.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got someone on your tail. It seems to us that you’ve got just about every willing terrorist organisation, criminal gang and unfriendly foreign intelligence service right up your rectum. There’s a contract out for you. A unique contract. Somebody has made an offer – to coin a phrase – none of